


Bone White and Brittle

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Drama, Families of Choice, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Kink Meme, M/M, Past Abuse, Protectiveness, Speciesism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Bolg is my <b>son</b>.”  He prodded again, even though the scales of dwarven armour were rather unforgiving against bare hobbit fingers.  “He has been my son nearly all his life, as good as born to me.  You dwarves respect adoptions as good as blood kin, and you will respect my family in my home, just the same.  Or you'll leave, now, through the door you came in.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>On one fated night, Bilbo Baggins finds a pitiful little creature huddled in his garden, bleeding and broken.  Adopted!Bolg AU, written for a kink meme prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Now with gorgeous cover art by[hobbitdragon!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon/profile)**
> 
>  
> 
> Written for the following [kink meme prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5346.html?thread=10973154#t10973154):
> 
>  
> 
> _On a dark and stormy night, Bilbo Baggins happily rests in Bag End. Then he hears something, a crying mewl, almost a growl. When he goes to check, he is more than surprised by the sight of a pale little baby orc, looking tired, hungry, and abused._
> 
>  
> 
> _He takes in the child and raises him alone. The Hobbits are scared of course, until little Bolg turns into Hobbitons greatest protector, fighting off bandits and wolves with his superior muscle and skill. He is very protective of his new home, and his new father, and tries to forget the pain and abuse he received at the hands of Azog._
> 
>  
> 
> _When the Dwarves come knocking, Bolg Baggins refuses to leave his father's side, and ends up facing his past._
> 
>  
> 
> _+10 if Bolg and Thorin end up getting along in a shared distaste of Elves_  
>  +100 if it ends up being Bilbo protecting Bolg from Azog at the cliff.  
> +1000 if Ori is the first to befriend him and knits him some lovely things.

* * *

It was September the 22nd, and Bilbo Baggins was thirty-four years old. He was also entirely alone.

To be perfectly honest, it was a welcome solitude, even if it marked his very first birthday without kith and kin carousing in the garden. His very first birthday without the clap of his father's hand over his shoulder and the traditional firm embrace, with Bungo muttering hoarse assurances of how proud he was, how Bilbo was a good lad, grown into such a fine young hobbit.

It was his second birthday, in living memory, without the mouth-watering scent of his mother's carrot cake wafting through Bag End— she had already been too ill with the Wasting when he had come of age the year before. Bilbo had baked his own cake that year— a simple spongy thing with clotted cream and soft, late peaches— and Belladonna had managed to taste a small slice, with Bilbo sitting carefully on the bed beside her, steadying the plate, and Bungo drawn up close beside in an armchair.

Yes, the solitude was welcome, but only because it meant his wailing, weeping relatives had finally dispersed, leaving him to his own quiet mourning. His mother had passed in the spring, just after waves of bluebells had begun to blossom between the trees; his father had lingered in his grief through one wretched summer, slipping away to follow his dear wife before the balmy nights of August had given way to even a hint of autumn's chill.

That had been weeks ago, and Bilbo had _just_ managed to oust the last of his (generally) well-meaning relations from their (generally) well-meant invasion of his smial.

It had been a strange sort of day, puttering about without any pressing matters to attend, or any relations to shoo out of his cupboards. There was an understanding that Bilbo was not holding any sort of celebration for his birthday, nor would he be delivering any gifts, and _sod_ the whispers about it. It had, thankfully, been a perfectly quiet morning and afternoon, save for the heavy rain pattering against his windows, and Bilbo had enjoyed it as much as he was likely able. That is to say, he had eaten sparingly, plucking bland morsels from the larder as his churning stomach allowed, smoked and read, and perhaps shed a few tears. There was a lingering ache beneath his ribs, but also a smile on his lips; though he missed them both, fiercely, he would not lose himself in sadness.

And that was how Bilbo Baggins found himself tossing together a pot of soup for his supper, simmering onion and mushrooms in a creamy base, perfect for chasing off the dampness trying to creep into his bones. It was one of his mother's recipes, spiced with the sweetness of nutmeg strongly enough to peg it as classically Tookish, and Bilbo felt the clenched feeling around his heart ease a wee bit as the smells became more familiar. It didn't hurt, as he'd feared it might, to call up her memory this way.

Perhaps tomorrow he would search through her cookbooks and try his hand at a carrot cake.

Bilbo was sorting through the bundles of herbs drying over the hearth, pulling down a few curling sprigs of parsley, when he heard the first thready, muffled wail. He thought for an instant to blame the wind, but he had lived in Bag End his entire life, and knew every creak and groan of wood and earth, in every season. This noise was not the wind, even on such a blustery, stormy night.

His second guess at the origin of the pitiful caterwauling was the Miller's fat brown tabby, the poor thing likely caught out in the downpour, and Bilbo set his herbs on the table with a sigh. Having a sopping cat trailing muck and wet fur all over his home wasn't the most appealing notion, but he could hardly leave the wretch out in such a storm. The soup would be fine on its own, for a short while; after giving it a final stir, Bilbo padded out of the kitchen, heading down the west hall when it became apparent that the miserable sounds were coming from the backdoor.

Wailing and _scratching_ , Bilbo discovered as he drew closer, though the latter was not nearly as desperate as he'd half-expected. It was almost as though the cat was uncertain, which was enough to give Bilbo a moment's pause; surely natural instinct and pounding rain should have had the beast trying to claw its way through the wood. Perhaps it was hurt, and wouldn't _that_ be a mess.

“I'm coming, puss,” Bilbo said, worry for the creature's safety overriding any concerns about tetchy cats and their foul tempers when injured. He had some cream left from his soup, if he needed to coax the beast—

Bilbo swung the door open without further dithering, only to freeze at the sight that greeted him on the other side. The huddled little body curled under the meagre protection offered by the arch of the roof was certainly no tabby, though it was soaking wet and just as wretched looking as Bilbo had imagined the cat might be.

The creature was scarcely bigger than a faunt, wrapped haphazardly in dark, tattered rags, with bare skin pale as milk where it wasn't smeared with filth or blotched with deep, angry welts and bruises. And those painful looking marks were abundant, from what Bilbo could see in the light spilling from inside his smial, patterned across the shivering creature like the stripes of the tabby he had expected to find.

He only had a moment to observe all this, however, before the creature's head snapped up, and Bilbo was pinned by a pair of eyes as wide and white as twin moons, staring at him from beneath matted hanks of fair, rain-slicked hair. His heart stuttered in his chest, shocked, but before he could do a single thing, the creature was hissing, scrambling back into the garden with its odd, flat features drawn tight with absolute terror.

“Oh,” Bilbo said, feeling the world swim around him dangerously, but he managed to get hold of himself before the dizziness could send him into a faint. He should have slammed the door, should have made his own retreat as quickly as that creature had done, but he braced an arm on the doorframe instead, breathing hard and trying desperately to make sense of what had just happened.

That... _creature_. He had never seen such a thing, vaguely hobbit-shaped with a proper assortment of arms and legs, but so strange in all other ways, even observed so briefly. And so very _frightened_ of him.

Swallowing thickly, Bilbo blinked, squinting out into the stormy evening. Heavy clouds meant the sky was hanging heavy and dark, like a shroud of velvet, but the creature was nearly luminous, even covered with mud— Bilbo could see it, curled tight as a weevil and trying unsuccessfully to hide amongst the leafy camouflage of his beets and turnips. Its eyes gleamed, narrowed to slits, and Bilbo felt his Tookish side swell up from the depths of him, like a pot boiling over and drowning all his good Baggins sense.

“Good evening, friend,” he called out gently, and waggled his fingers. The creature did not twitch, as far as he could tell. “That is, I mean, if you are a friend, then please, welcome. It's not fit to be out tonight... you're welcome to share my hearth, a bite of supper, perhaps? Are you hungry?” There was no answer, just those glimmering eyes watching him warily, and Bilbo ran a hand over his face, fully aware that he was going mad.

“Right then.” With some effort, he shored up his trembling nerves. “I'm off to fetch you some soup. Nice hot soup, hm?”

Leaving his door opened wide, heedless of what little rain was managing to sprinkle inside, Bilbo made haste back to the kitchen, ignoring the minor tremors that shook his hands as he ladled out two bowls, heaping one with an especially ample portion, and set them on a tray, piling on a plate of scones, some cold ham, and a few red apples. It was something of a strange meal, but he didn't dare spare the time to sort through the larder properly; he didn't imagine the creature would linger long, if it hadn't already fled the moment he ran off.

Tottering back down the hallway, Bilbo ignored any silly concerns about propriety, setting the tray on the floor just inside the threshold, before lowering himself to sit cross-legged nearby. The wind was fierce, but blowing away from the doorway, and the evening air was cool.

Taking up the smaller bowl, as well as a scone, Bilbo was oddly relieved to see the creature exactly where he had left it, hunkered down in his garden.

He waved his bowl at the creature, then motioned toward the heaping tray. “I've brought you some supper, if you like.”

There was no response, not that Bilbo had expected one, so he dug his spoon into his bowl and took a mouthful with an exaggerated noise of pleasure. Well, only partially exaggerated— it was delicious soup, even without the parsley.

“Mm, _yum_. Yum, yum, yum.” He wasn't even certain the creature could understand him or not, but Bilbo was willing to take the chance of embarrassing himself if it meant coaxing the pitiful thing out of the rain. Pointing at the tray again, Bilbo then waved towards the creature and called up his most good-natured smile. “Soup for you. Food, for you. Yum yum.”

Eating slowly, Bilbo shifted his gaze down to his bowl, listening instead of watching. Eventually, just as he was beginning to blot up the last dregs of soup with his scone, there was a skittering sound on the garden path, then the clack of dishes from the tray. A furtive glance found the creature hunched outside, cowering against the wall as it greedily shovelled handfuls of cooling soup into its mouth, creamy stock mingling with the mud caked on its long fingers. It was on the tip of Bilbo's tongue to suggest a spoon, but he bit that automatic, ridiculous chiding back; the oddity of the situation had muddled his mind to foolishness, obviously.

The bowl was dropped with a clatter, once the creature had licked every hint of soup from its depths, and Bilbo was glad he'd had the presence of mind to use the thicker crockery, rather than his mother's fine pottery.

The scones were the next casualty, four snatched from the plate in a single swipe, and Bilbo dared to let his gaze linger on the crumbs soon falling around hairless toes. Ten toes, leading into smallish feet for the creature's size (at least, smallish by hobbit standards), filthy with mire and peppered with oozing cuts. This close, Bilbo could see more wounds here and there, bleeding sluggishly— the blood was tar-black, and not just from the dimness of the light.

Goblins had black blood; Bilbo had read that in his books, but he also remembered the sight, as much as he wished not to. He had been a tween when the Fell Winter sunk its claws into the Shire, and creatures from darkest nightmares had torn across the frozen Brandywine. He remembered hiding in the storeroom with his parents, staying silent and small as screams and snarls had echoed beyond their barred doors. He would never forget the splatters of black and crimson across the snow when they had finally dared to creep from the smial, and the ichor dripping from the swords of the Rangers, black as ink.

This creature didn't precisely _look_ like a goblin— it was a battered little thing, hardly more than skin and bones under all that mud, and it hadn't yet tried to tear him limb from limb. Still, the blood made Bilbo's pulse flutter, a burst of nervous tension in the midst of bold madness.

Very cautiously, Bilbo set his own bowl aside and began rising to his feet, not reacting when his movements earned another hiss and a scuttle away, though not nearly as far as the creature had first retreated.

“I'll fetch some more,” he said, his tone soft and soothing, and backed slowly down the hallway. The creature didn't follow, and Bilbo braced himself against the wall the moment he'd turned the corner, out of sight of the door. He took a few great gulps of air, blinking away the spots dancing around the edges of his vision, and thought of the creature's fearful expression. There hadn't been a hint of malice there, just terror; a goblin afraid of _him_ , for goodness sake.

A baby goblin? Was there even such a thing, or did they spring up from the earth fully formed and vicious? It was quite small, quite soft looking compared to the dreadful monsters he recalled, and quite miserable out in the storm.

“Cake,” Bilbo said suddenly, startling himself, then took one final deep breath and strode off towards the pantry. He had two full seed cakes wrapped in linen, freshly baked earlier that week, as well as a dozen small mince pies in a basket; he gathered up the lot, foregoing butter in favour of not bringing a knife within reach of the strange creature, and headed back to the door.

The tray was empty of every scrap of food when he returned, not even an apple core remaining, and Bilbo noticed that his own bowl had also been licked clean. The creature was crouched by the door, staring at him with hawk-like intensity, and Bilbo made a point of taking one of the pies for himself before setting the basket and the cakes down next to the tray, then scooting back a step and folding himself down to sit.

The creature was dragging the basket outside before Bilbo's bum even touched the floor, and the pies met a similar fate as the scones: utterly destroyed in an obscenely short period of time, and without any attempt at table manners. Not that they were sitting at a table, but the point was the same.

“You'll make yourself ill, eating so quickly,” Bilbo said, nibbling his own dessert, and the creature flinched, cowering smaller as it shoved an entire pie into its mouth. Its teeth were... rather _pointed_ , but it wasn't as though the little creature had a maw of fangs.

When Bilbo finished his pie, he reached for one of the cakes, intending to tear a piece for himself before the goblin could inflict itself upon them. Without any warning at all, the creature darted forward to hunch over the cakes like a spider, hissing with those pointed teeth bared and eyes flashing.

It was pure instinct that had Bilbo tutting sharply rather than shrieking and scrambling away. Instinct, or perhaps _lunacy_.

“None of that!” He sounded far too much like his father in that moment, firm but kind, and Bilbo's heart gave a lurch. The creature stilled, its hissing fading to silence and its eyes wide as saucers, and Bilbo cleared his throat. “You may have as much as you like,” he said, nodding towards the cakes. “But I'll not tolerate rude guests. Do you understand?”

The moment stretched between them, drawing taut, until the creature shrank back with a snuffling whimper, squatting on the threshold.

“Thank you.” Bilbo smiled, only partly forced, and tore a small hunk from one of the loaves. Then he swept a hand over, indicated the rest, and smiled a bit brighter. “There you are; go ahead and dig in. We can share, you see?”

The creature was frowning, but if Bilbo were to hazard a guess, he would say the expression was confused rather than angry. Cautiously, one pale arm crept out toward the cakes again, and Bilbo hummed encouragingly.

Seeing someone take a huge bite directly out of the side of a seed cake was not something Bilbo had expected; even his wilder Tookish cousins, when they'd been boisterous tweens, had been wise enough to tear at a loaf with their hands before munching away. The first cake did seem to disappear a bit slower than the soup and scones had done, which seemed like progress of a sort. Before the second cake could be mauled as well, Bilbo swallowed the last bite of his own morsel, and decided to try something.

Wiping his fingers on the knee of his trousers, Bilbo pointed to his chest, taking advantage of the unwavering attention the creature had fixed upon his every move.

“Bilbo,” he said, tapping his breastbone. “Bilbo. My name is Bilbo.” Then he pointed to the creature, and waited.

When the creature did nothing but stare, fair brows furrowing under the stringy drape of its hair, Bilbo tried again.

“Bilbo. _Bil_ bo.” He tapped his chest, then pointed at the creature. After another moment of silence, his guest let out a low, shuddering sort of growl, and pressed its fist against its own bruised chest, rumbling out a single croaky syllable.

“ _Bolg_ ,” Bilbo repeated, still pointing at the creature, and was incredibly pleased when his attempt earned a shallow, jerky nod. “Bolg,” he said again, feeling the coarse name on his tongue, then pointed to himself one last time. “Bilbo.”

“ _Beel_ -bow,” the creature growled, lip curling to bare a row of sharp teeth. There were poppy seeds stuck between them. “Beel-bow.”

“Close enough, I suppose.” Bilbo found himself unable to stifle his chuckling, as the reality of the situation began to sink fully into his mind. He had a baby goblin in his smial, eating seed cakes. He'd been living alone for less than a month, and he may have already lost complete control of the situation. Proper gentlehobbits, even bachelors, didn't have baby goblins 'round for tea and cakes. Goodness gracious. “Bilbo, at your service, Bolg.”

“Beel-bow.” The creature, Bolg, snatched up the second cake, but didn't immediately begin chomping away. Instead, he levelled Bilbo with an indecipherable sort of look, tilting his head like a bird, and a moment later, Bilbo found himself with a lapful of cake.

It wasn't the remainder of the loaf, it wasn't even half, but it was a chunk approximately the size that Bilbo had first torn off. Bolg grunted at him, a few curt noises that might have been words in some rough orcish tongue, and set about polishing off the rest of his cake with relish.

Staring at the crumbling, slightly muddy lump that Bolg had tossed at him, Bilbo sighed softly. He wasn't entirely full— Bolg had eaten most of his supper, after all— and there were worse things than eating a tasty, if slightly mangled cake. It would be rude to refuse, at this point.

“Thank you, Bolg.” Scooping up the grainy clod, Bilbo inclined his head at the curious goblin creature, resigning himself to eating a smear or two of dirt for the sake of this strange, delicate accord.


	2. Chapter 2

_**17 Years Later...** _

“You'll be back for luncheon,” Bilbo said around the bit of his pipe, more statement than question. “I've a chicken ready for roasting, and I would very much appreciate you bringing in the laundry from the line this afternoon.”

“ _One_ chicken?” Even standing at the top of the front stairs, Bilbo still had to look up to see his son's crooked smile, even though the lad was already down on the road. Of course, Bolg had been taller than him for years, having shot up like a weed shortly after arriving at Bag End so long ago; seven square meals a day had certainly done the once scrawny little fellow no harm at all.

Trotting down the stairs towards his usual bench, feeling rather eager to enjoy a nice leisurely smoke on a lovely morning, Bilbo made a show of heaving a great, exasperated sigh. “Yes, one chicken, and a pair of nice fat pheasants just for you, you bottomless pit.”

Towering far above him now that they were on even ground, Bolg scrubbed a massive hand through his unruly hair, making it stand like a tufting white mess on one side. Bilbo had tried everything imaginable to tame that mop over the years, short of shearing him down like a sheep, but despite all that combing and clipping, the lad forever looked like the Shire's largest dandelion, gone to seed.

Perhaps because he wouldn't keep his confounded _hands_ out of it.

“Thank you, Papa.” Grinning wide now, scuffing his toes through the dust, Bolg bent to nuzzle against the crown of Bilbo's own head, not quite a kiss, and sling one arm around his shoulders for a quick squeeze. The simple fact that Bolg had not yet grown mortified by the thought of showing such affection to his father, as some young hobbit lads were wont to do in their later tweens, pleased Bilbo to no end. He had never imagined it would feel this _essential_ , to be tugged into firm embraces and called Papa, even now that they had passed the time of bedtime stories and bussing skinned knees.

“Off you go,” Bilbo said, giving Bolg's ribs a pat. Before the lad could straighten back up, however, Bilbo caught him by the braces, holding him stooped. “I'm not mending another set of trousers if you tear them getting into those dratted brambles again, and we both know how much _you_ like sewing. Fair warning.”

Bolg's head tilted, and he rumbled a considering sort of growl, sounding rather like distant thunder. “What if I bring blackberries home?”

“You'll eat them on the way home, you mean.” Tugging his braces once, Bilbo released them, settling back on his bench. It was much larger than the bench that had once been installed there for the contemplations of Bagginses (that is, contemplations _by_ Bagginses, not _about_ Bagginses, though the latter was sometimes included within the domain of the former); this new bench was a heavy, oaken thing Bilbo had ordered specially made from a craftsman in Bree, sizable enough to seat him and Bolg quite comfortably.

He had spent a small fortune and countless hours of creative thinking to improve Bag End, making it fit his son nearly as well as it had fit every other Baggins to come before. There were no perfect solutions, not with a smial already so well-built and established, but a few new pieces of furniture, vaulting the lower portions of ceiling wherever the hill allowed, and an expansive addition sprawling out the back had served well enough as Bolg had grown and grown and grown. Having the smaller doorways carved out to look like upside-down keyholes rather than traditionally rounded was a small price to pay to make Bag End a cozy home for them both; he still had to duck around the chandeliers in the main house, but in his own rooms, Bolg could stand (impossibly) tall.

“Off with you, didn't I say?” Making shooing motions with the stem of his pipe, Bilbo leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face and the scent of the garden. “If you manage to bring me berries _and_ intact trousers, I'll make a crumble for tea.”

“I'll be holding you to that— _oh_. Hm. Papa?”

“Hm?” The wary curiosity in Bolg's tone made Bilbo snap to attention, and the reason for his son's concern was readily apparent. A person, man-sized, in long grey robes and a tall, pointed hat, was standing just slightly farther down Bagshot Row, peering at them. “Oh.”

To the residents of Hobbiton, and indeed to most hobbits of the Shire, Bolg Baggins was a much appreciated neighbour. It hadn't always been that way, of course— choosing to raise a goblin foundling had very nearly made Bilbo a pariah, even among his most broad-minded Tookish relatives. Hobbits were simple, peaceful folk by nature, but not apt to accept queer circumstances without kicking up a fuss. A goblin in their midst, even a wee one playing in the garden with carved wooden toys, was certainly one of the queerest circumstances the Shire had ever seen.

But Bolg had proven himself an astoundingly gentle soul, polite and well-mannered with a tight rein on his temper, and also extremely useful. He was stronger than twenty strapping hobbit lads, and more than willing to help dig up a tree stump, or drag a broken wagon home for repairs. And though he might be soft-spoken, might never think to raise a hand against kith and kin, he was ferocious in a way Bilbo could scarcely comprehend when riled to defence. When wolves had encroached past the Rushock Bog to threaten livestock and hobbits alike, Bolg had lead the struggle to drive them back. And those few times that bandits had struck outlying farms, or accosted travellers on the road to Bree, Bolg had sent them running in utter terror, babbling stories about terrible monsters guarding the Shire halflings.

It had taken time, but eventually Bolg had been accepted, respected, and now beloved among Shire-folk as a friend and protector, and even family to some. Beyond the rolling green hills, however, the world was not often so understanding, and the reactions of strangers were always considered suspect until proven otherwise.

After a moment of what appeared to be consideration, the grey-robed stranger ambled towards them, leaning on a gnarled walking stick despite an obvious sureness of foot. Beneath the wide brim of his hat, and his bushy brows, the stranger's eyes glittered bright, crystal blue, shifting from Bilbo to Bolg and back again.

“Good morning,” Bilbo said, taking a nervous puff of his pipe, while Bolg shifted closer to the fence, keeping his back turned away from the stranger.

The stranger, who was perhaps vaguely familiar in a way Bilbo could not quite put his finger on, stared for a silent instant longer, and the weight of his gaze seemed to settle directly onto Bilbo's heart, making it flutter like a panicked sparrow held down by a cat.

“What do you mean,” the stranger said finally, with perhaps the barest hint of a smile twitching atop his lengthy grey beard. “Do you mean to wish me a good morning or are you saying it is a good morning whether I want it to be or not? Or perhaps you are saying that you feel good, on this particular morning. Or maybe you are suggesting that it is a morning to be good on.”

Bilbo blinked, feeling altogether befuddled by this current state of affairs— it was a simple _good morning_ , blast it, not an invitation for linguistic interrogations before elevenses— while Bolg, the incorrigible rascal, didn't make any attempt to stifle his rich, rasping laugh.

* * *

The smell of frying fish was wafting through Bag End, caught fresh from the Brandywine that morning, and Bilbo scooped three onto Bolg's plate, along with heaps of piping hot vegetables.

“Supper,” he called, setting the plate on the table as Bolg replied with a wordless acknowledgement from down the corridor. The lad had been out of sorts since Gandalf's talk of adventuring, hustling Bilbo back inside the house as the wizard had insisted such a mad undertaking would be good for them both; it was rare for Bolg to come through the front door, which hadn't been renovated as the back had been, but he squeezed in regardless, before glaring back out through the windows.

Since then, Bolg had kept strangely quiet, puttering around the smial rather than going off to trek the fields and forests with his cousins; he had hardly let Bilbo out of his sight since Gandalf had vanished back down the road. There were times, Bilbo had learned, when his son's admirable instincts to protect could get a tad out of hand.

Bilbo began serving his own supper as Bolg ducked through the kitchen door, growling with pleasure at the sight of his meal, but then the jingle of the doorbell made them both pause.

It was odd to have a caller so late, but not entirely unheard of, and Bilbo waved Bolg off from levering himself out of his huge chair. “I'll see to it. Eat before it gets cold.”

The words were futile— Bilbo had no doubt that his son would be creeping on his heels the moment he turned his back, equal parts curious and suspicious. Wiping his hands on a dishcloth, Bilbo padded out to the front door, ignoring the sound of heavier footsteps following furtively behind him.

There was a dwarf on his stoop, as it happened. A very... _rough_ looking dwarf. Bilbo may have squeaked, just a tiny bit, and yanked his dressing gown closed with a moderate amount of discomfort.

“Dwalin,” the dwarf said, bowing without dropping his bold stare for an instant. “At your service.”

He could _not_ have a strange dwarf in his house— dwarven traders occasionally peddled their wares in the Shire, and their reactions to Bolg had never been especially cordial. In fact, Bolg still carried a scar on his left cheek from a sharply thrown stone, and that particular tinsmith had been told in no uncertain terms than neither he, nor his wares, were welcome in Hobbiton.

Politeness was not a habit Bilbo could break so easily, however, especially when flustered.

“Bilbo Baggins.” He hoped, desperately, that Bolg was keeping himself unseen. The very last thing they needed was a brawl in the entrance hall. “At yours.”

The dwarf then stepped into Bag End as though he owned the place, and Bilbo scrambled to block the way without actually appearing as though he was pushing his very burly, entirely unexpected guest back out the door.

“It's just— that is, Master Dwarf— how can I—”

Dwalin brushed him off, apparently unaffected by dithering hobbits, though the dwarf was scowling balefully, as though he'd been sucking on the lemon Bilbo hadn't yet sprinkled over his supper. “I've been warned about your orc. I'll not break the rules of hospitality, provided I'm not given cause.”

It was obvious the dwarf begrudged every word of that assurance, and Bilbo didn't dare allow himself to relax. The day had gone from strange to dangerously bizarre with a single ring of the bell. “You won't— I'm sorry, but do we know each other?”

Dwalin eyeballed him askance, as though _he_ were the mad one, despite the perfectly reasonable nature of such a question. “No.” Suddenly, Bilbo found himself nearly bowled over by an armful of heavy cloak. “Now, where's supper? He said there'd be food.”

“Supper?” The dwarf was already tromping down the corridor, towards the kitchen, and Bilbo nearly tripped over the edge of the cloak before tossing it aside and nearly sprinting to catch up. “Who said? What's going on?”

Blessedly, Bolg had removed himself to another hiding place, having years of experience traversing every nook and cranny of Bag End; he was likely still lurking nearby, but avoiding conflict was often Bolg's preferred tactic. He may have cut an intimidating figure, but Bolg was a true gentle giant, constantly aware of his own strength and the dangers inherent in letting it loose.

If he lived a hundred years, Bilbo would never forget the horrified look that had stolen across Bolg's face, the summer after he had first arrived at Bag End. That look, crumpling to keening and desperate apology almost immediately, had stabbed at Bilbo's heart more painfully than the throbbing in his broken arm, which had been its own agony.

Dwalin settled himself at the kitchen table and tucked in to Bilbo's supper without so much as a _by your leave_ ; Bolg's plate was nowhere to be seen, and his massive chair was empty.

Abandoning the dwarf to his own devices with only a twinge of hesitation, Bilbo slipped out into the atrium, only to find Bolg's shaggy white head peeking out from the study door.

“Papa,” he whispered when Bilbo drew closer; his eyes were wide, and his slitted nostrils were flared with agitation. “What's going on?”

“I have no idea.” Bilbo glanced back toward the kitchen, then reached up to give his son a reassuring squeeze wherever he could reach; as Bolg was very nearly crouching in the doorway, Bilbo was able to take hold of his shoulder with only a bit of stretching. “But I'll... I'll sort it. Do you have your supper?” At Bolg's nod, Bilbo smiled wanly. “Good lad. Now, pop off to your rooms to eat while I see to our guest; I don't want you tucked away in a corner gnawing on a fishbone like a cranky old cat. It shouldn't be long until I can see him out, I don't imagine, and I'll call if I need you.”

Bolg hissed, soft and sibilant, but didn't argue. Clutching his plate against his chest, he slumped off towards his rooms, and Bilbo tried valiantly to ignore the guilt writhing sour in his belly. It was safer this way, and they both knew it, but it would never feel good to hide his son away like some shameful secret.

Three more chimes, eleven more dwarves, and one wizard later, Bilbo had officially been made a liar— it had already been too long since he'd sent Bolg off, the dwarves showed absolutely no sign of leaving anytime soon, and Gandalf had offered precisely no good reasons for this boisterous invasion. Tamping down every flare of temper as much as he was able, even as his pantry was stripped bare before him, Bilbo tugged at his own hair and threw his gaze up towards the ceiling beams, looking for answers amongst the shadows.

The dwarves were tossing food through the air, laughing and carousing as they ate him out of house and home (which was quite a feat, considering he stocked enough food to satisfy a healthy hobbit appetite and a seven-foot goblin lad), and Bilbo had no intention of watching the massacre unfold until Gandalf called his name from the dining room.

Turning from the pantry door (oh mercy, his poor pantry), Bilbo noticed that the wizard had biscuit crumbs in his beard, and a sparkle in his eyes. “Bilbo, my dear fellow, wherever is your fine lad?” Almost immediately, the dining room fell deathly silent; the only one seemingly unaffected by the ratcheting tension was Gandalf himself, still smiling beatifically.

“I made a point,” the wizard said. “Of informing our company of young Bolg, so as to avoid any unpleasant surprises. Dwarf children, as you may know, are rare and exceedingly precious, and the adoption of young ones in need is always held in the highest esteem in dwarven culture. Isn't that so, Balin?”

Seated across the table, Balin glanced from dwarf to dwarf, frowning over his ale. “Aye, that is so. It is a noble thing, to take a needy child in, and bloodlines are never questioned after the fact. The child is kin, no matter the circumstance, and any dwarf worth his beard values family above any treasure. As dictates one of our proudest traditions.”

The grumbling that followed was still rather nettled, but not nearly as hostile as Bilbo had expected. Before he could do more than gawp, one of the dwarves— Gloin, if he recalled correctly— cleared his throat gruffly.

“Go fetch your son, then, Master Baggins.” Picking up a bread roll, Gloin tore it in two a bit more aggressively than necessary, but there wasn't a note of threat in his determined tone. “And we will all of us keep our heads, like civilized folk.”

“Go on, Bilbo,” Gandalf said, placid as a lake, and Bilbo found himself all but fleeing down the hall, wiping his sweaty palms against his dressing gown. His bedroom was on the way, and he took a moment to pull on a pair of trousers, straightening his braces with a nervous snap.

“Bolg?” His son's rooms had once been Bag End's guestroom, now expanded out of the hill entirely, cosy and well lit, with everything oversized enough for Bolg's comfort. Bilbo felt a bit like a faunt again just stepping through the towering doorway.

The lad was laid out on his vast mattress, propped up against the headboard with a book spread across his bent knees. His plate, sitting on the nightstand, was stripped empty of all but slender bones.

“We've gained a few more guests, my boy.” Leaning against the doorframe to stop himself from fidgeting, Bilbo crossed his arms. “A dozen dwarves, and Gandalf, who, I imagine, is the one we have to thank for the oddness of this evening. Would you like to meet them?”

Bolg blinked, the candle flames reflecting brightly orange against the liquid silver of his eyes, and closed his book. He appeared to chew over his answer very carefully, before finally dipping a sharp nod. “I think... I would.”

Fear clutched hard at Bilbo's chest, making his breath hitch, but he swallowed it back. All due caution was one thing, but he could not bear to banish his son to the shadows, to forbid him from meeting guests in their own home. He _would_ not.

“Come on, then,” he managed to say, perhaps only slightly strangled, and waited for Bolg to roll to his feet and follow him out.

Before they came to the atrium, and thus within sight of the dining room, one broad hand settled against Bilbo's nape, warm and callused. It was a comfort, Bilbo thought, for the pair of them.

“You're a good lad,” he murmured, reaching up to pat Bolg's fingers where they curled over his shoulder. “You make me so proud, my dear boy.”

Then, before anymore could be said, they were stepping into view, and there were a few audible gasps from the assembled dwarves.

“Ah, there you are,” Gandalf said, still paying the strained atmosphere no heed at all. “Bolg Baggins, may I introduce our honoured company: here we have Balin, Dwalin, Oin, Gloin, Dori, Nori, Ori, Fili, Kili, Bifur, Bofur, and there, at the end, Bombur. My good fellows, this is Bolg Baggins, son of Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End.”

The silence was thicker than treacle and just as dark, until finally Bolg shifted on his heels, and dropped into a deep bow, made to look all the deeper when he straightened up again and his head brushed the ceiling beams.

“At your service, Master Dwarves, Master Gandalf,” he said, without the barest hint of growl or tremor colouring his voice, flawlessly polite. His hand, still resting on Bilbo's shoulder, was shaking ever so slightly.

“You—” Balin's complexion had gone chalky, nearly as grey as his beard, but he obviously took pains to gather his composure. All Bilbo knew of the enmity between goblins and dwarves, he had learned from books, but that was enough. He could sympathize, in a vague way, but Bolg was his son, above and beyond any accident of birth.

“Well met, laddie,” Balin tried again, then swept those around the table with a meaningful stare. “Well met, indeed.”

“Oh, aye.” Bofur, seated at the end of the table closest to the door, was contorted around, looking up at Bolg. “Er... pull up a chair, eh?”

It was a strained sounding offer, but Bolg's mouth lifted regardless, in a careful, closed-lipped smile. “Thank you, I will.”

Out of all the furniture that had been relocated during the dwarves' preparations for their meal, Bolg's great oaken dining chair was one of the only seats in the entire smial that had gone completely untouched. In fact, the dwarves had given it a very wide berth, as though the smooth, thick wood might hide a maw of snapping teeth.

When Bolg strode off to fetch it, Bilbo remained, listening as the dwarves began to mutter amongst themselves in a rolling language he could not understand. Gandalf, confound him, merely raised his fingers at Bilbo, in a gesture likely meant to be at least somewhat soothing.

Before the strange discussion could get too heated, Bolg was returning to settle himself in the atrium, as the dining room was packed too full for even Bilbo to wedge himself comfortably inside.

It was awkward, at first, but apparently dwarves were nearly as fond of a good meal as hobbits, and the table was still strewn with scandalous amounts of food. Eating picked up again gradually, with surreptitious glances thrown often in Bolg's direction, but the lad simply folded his hands between his knees and kept his own attention mostly on Bilbo, only rarely straying to study their guests.

Until eventually food was being tossed once more, plates were scraping clean, and Bilbo was fretting over the mistreatment of his doilies, his utensils, and his good pottery. Those plates had survived century of Tooks, as well as a growing goblin lad, without suffering worse than a chipped edge or two— one evening in the company of dwarves, and Bilbo thought he would be lucky to have shards remaining. And Bolg was absolutely _no help at all_ , staying planted in his chair but laughing riotously along with the antics unfolding before him.

It wasn't until Bilbo found himself standing in his own kitchen, surrounded by chortling dwarves and piles of clean, unbroken dishes, that he was treated to the sight of Gandalf's unruffled calm finally faltering, when a pounding knock echoed through Bag End.

“He is here,” the wizard said quietly, and Bilbo shivered.

* * *

Thorin Oakenshield was ill-mannered, the condescension in his tone downright _rude_ , and Bilbo had snarked back as much as he'd dared when faced with such a forceful presence. This was his own home, confound it...

“He looks more like a grocer than a burglar,” Thorin said, rousing chuckles from the rest of his company, and Bilbo wasn't entirely certain which part of that sentence he objected to more. “And nothing like an _orc-tamer_ at all,” the dwarf continued, faintly smirking, and _then_ Bilbo hackles rose in earnest. “Gandalf's note said you keep one of the foul creatures, of all the insane notions.”

Armed and armoured, backed by a dozen other dwarves, and more than a bit intimidating by his regal bearing alone— Thorin Oakenshield could have been a mountain troll, for all Bilbo cared at the moment. Stepping forward, crowding into Thorin's space without a care in the world for any thunderous glowering, Bilbo prodded one finger against the dwarf's broad, barrel chest.

“Bolg is my _son_.” He prodded again, even though the scales of Thorin's armour were rather unforgiving against bare hobbit fingers. “He has been my son nearly all his life, as good as born to me. You dwarves respect adoptions as good as blood kin, and you will respect my family in my home, just the same. Or you'll leave, now, through the door you came in.”

If Bilbo's heart was making all efforts to hammer through his ribs and escape his chest, that was absolutely no one's business but his own. He still stood tall before Thorin Oakenshield, holding the dwarf's knife-sharp gaze, and did not permit himself to falter.

“I ask your pardon,” Thorin rumbled quietly, after the longest few moments of Bilbo's entire life. The words ground like millstones from his mouth, gruff and flat. “I cannot... Beneath your roof, Bilbo Baggins, I shall choose my words with more care. As hospitality demands.”

It was a very specific sort of apology, and Bilbo understood the limits of what had been said, just as well as any dwarf there. It was enough, however, to quell the worst of his ire.

That is, of course, until the lot of them had moved back to the dining room, and Thorin had drawn a sword at his first glimpse of Bolg.

“Stop it!” Shoving past as many bodies as it took to reach his son, Bilbo darted around Thorin's menacing stance and threw himself in front of Bolg, who had scrambled to his feet at Thorin's bellow. “Stop it this instant!”

“ _You will all be silent_!”

Gandalf's voice seemed to fill every corner of the room, booming and imperative, until there was simply an old wizard once again, standing in Bilbo's atrium with his hands spread wide before him.

“You will all be calm,” Gandalf said, and Bilbo could no longer feel the words pressing into his bones. “Sheath your blade, Thorin. There is no one here who means you harm, least of all young Bolg. Everyone, _calm_.”

“You did not say it was _this orc_!” After Gandalf's first shout, Thorin's sword had lowered to his side, but his free hand now pointed accusingly. Bilbo was terrified by the sheer revulsion and horror blazing in the dwarf's steely blue eyes. “A pale orc, a _giant pale orc_ , Gandalf! How came you here, creature? Was Azog the filth that sired you? _Tell me_!”

“Now see here—” Bilbo began to say, only to fall silent at the heavy press of Bolg hand upon the crown of his head.

“I remember very little, before my father found me,” Bolg said, and Bilbo could hear the tightly leashed anger in his voice, laced with fear. “But I have never seen another like me, and Azog is not a word I know. There are only ever smaller, twisted goblins in my memories, filthy and cruel. I still bear the marks of their teeth and their claws, their tortures, though I was barely more than a faunt, a babe, when I came here.”

Bolg moved, his knees pressing up against Bilbo's back, and yanked at the collar of his shirt until a few of the buttons slipped free. His throat was a thick, snow white arch, giving way to the ivory hair that thatched his chest; it was, however, the gruesome scars that drew the eye most of all. Puckered shapes, raised lines and divots, each hinting at the sorts of terrible injury that had caused them— there was peculiar curving scar stretched around the muscles of Bolg's upper arm, where the faint outline of gigantic fangs could be traced, before twisting into a ruined knot of tissue. It was a bite that haunted Bolg in his darkest dreams, the ones from which he woke snarling and slick with sweat, with Bilbo watching him fretfully from an armchair.

“I have no love for orcs,” Bolg growled, flashing his deeply marked collarbone for an instant longer, before fastening his buttons again, thick fingers moving deftly. “I am a Baggins of Bag End. Bolg Baggins, at your service.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very excited to hit the bonus points for this particular prompt, especially Ori's overtures of friendship. It's going to be _adorable_.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed the start of this strange little story; the idea has certainly grabbed hold of me, so we'll see how things unfold. Thank you for reading; more to come soon-ish, with any luck at all. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, you lovely people— I'm thrilled and astonished by the response to this so far. The prompt is beyond excellent, and it's allowing me to have a lot of fun with figuring out ways to weave my Bolg into the movie canon. It's an odd sort of AU, and I wasn't entirely certain it would appeal to folks, but I've been blown away; you all are just brilliant <3 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

_Flash of light, searing pain, then_ _**poof** _ _— you’re nothing more than a pile of ash._

When Bilbo came to, groaning groggily, he had a cool cloth draped over his forehead, dripping water unpleasantly down his neck. His arms felt like noodles, overcooked and floppy, but he managed to pull the dratted cloth off without opening his bleary eyes.

“Papa?” Large fingers rubbed gently at his brow, pushing back wet curls of hair. “Are you back with us yet?”

Slowly taking in the familiar cradle of his armchair under his bum, the odd woolly feeling in his skull, Bilbo mulled over his last clear memory before Bag End had narrowed, and the dark spots dancing at the edges of his vision had overwhelmed him.

_Think furnace, with wings._

“Oh, not entirely,” he mumbled, blinking, and the room gradually came back into focus. Bolg, kneeling beside his chair, already had a steaming mug in hand, and passed it over with a fragile looking smile.

“You haven’t fainted in years.”

Bilbo hummed around a fortifying mouthful of tea, and reached out to lay his hand against Bolg’s cheek. “Not since you took that tumble out of the Party Tree, if I recall correctly, and staggered home with your scalp split.” There had been so much blood that day, like an ink pot poured down his face and through his hair, and Bilbo had, perhaps, reacted poorly once the initial rush to make certain Bolg’s skull was in one piece had faded.

Shuddering slightly— there would be a great deal more blood if Bolg ended up eaten by a dragon, or perhaps merely a _pile of ash_ — Bilbo took a breath and settled back into his chair. “I’m fine, my boy. I just need to sit quietly for a moment.”

“You have been sitting quietly for far too long, with your doilies and your mother’s dishes.” Bilbo hadn’t even noticed Gandalf lurking nearby, until the wizard was moving into view, chiding him. “My dear Bolg, I recall a time when your father was an intrepid young hobbit, always running off in search of elves and adventure... staying up late and coming home after dark, trailing mud and twigs and fire flies.” Bilbo glanced away from Gandalf’s knowing gaze, feeling, for some foolish reason, strangely ashamed. Beside him, Bolg was troublingly silent.

“A young hobbit,” Gandalf continued, his tone becoming gentler, and somehow that was even _worse_ than the scolding. “Who would like nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire. The world is not in your books and maps, Bilbo— it’s out there.”

Glancing up, Bilbo found Gandalf sweeping an arm towards the window and the dark night beyond.

“There is vast world for you both to discover, if you dare to walk out your door.”

Somewhere deep beneath Bilbo's ribs, there was a sharp, insistent tug, but it was merely an echo; the impulse of a foolish lad without a care in the world. There was much more at stake now.

“I have responsibilities,” Bilbo said, steeling the words with as much resolve as he could gather. “I can’t just go running off into the blue. I am a Baggins of Bag End, _we_ are Bagginses, and I’ll not put my son in such danger. That—” He pointed to the ridiculous contract where it lay folded between them, offering a fourteenth share in some fantastic treasure, to be split between a skilled burglar and his bodyguard. “No, I’m not signing that. I can’t.”

Setting his tea on his knee, Bilbo leaned forward and dared to look over at Bolg, who had been utterly silent for too long. As he’d feared, the lad looked wistful and disappointed, mixed with vague relief. Worry of dangers aside, the promise of adventure, of dragons and treasure and seeing the world beyond the rolling green of the Shire, likely plucked at a spirit in Bolg’s young heart, similar to the sort that had once thrummed in Bilbo’s.

It still thrummed gently now, if he were completely honest with himself— which he was very determinedly _not being_.

“You know how dangerous it would be for you, my boy, to venture out among strangers.”

“I know.” Bolg shifted to lean against the side of Bilbo’s chair; the thread of sorrow wound through his voice was as fine as spider’s silk, but it cut at Bilbo’s heart like a blade.

“I can’t,” he said again, and hauled himself to his feet. The walls of the smial had never felt so stifling, and Bilbo was in desperate need to be anywhere else, even if it was simply the privacy of his bedroom. “We can’t. I’m sorry, Gandalf.”

He did not _run away_ , not really, but the weight of Gandalf’s stare may have hastened the slap of his feet against the hardwood.

 

* * *

 

When Bilbo woke the next morning, he was wrapped in snow white limbs, with hot breath gusting against the nape of his neck. Giving up his vast mattress for the comfort of their guests had been more than a gesture of good manners for Bolg, and there hadn’t been any argument when the lad had folded himself into Bilbo’s bed. Neither had begrudged the other comfort or quilts, with the dwarves’ beautiful, mournful song still lingering in the fore of their minds.

Wriggling carefully free, Bilbo stayed as silent as possible until a quick glance back showed Bolg already awake, silvery gaze watching him in silence.

“Good morning,” Bilbo whispered, and the lad’s mouth twitched faintly in return, not quite a smile. The rest of the house was eerily quiet, especially compared to the night before, and a quick peek around revealed why: the dwarves and Gandalf had gone, with only the empty pantry and the contract still sitting on the table as evidence they had ever been there at all.

The silence felt brittle, like frost on dry autumn leaves, and there was hardly a speck of food left for breakfast. Some pickled beets and a few small red apples, hidden away in a corner, were all that remained unscathed.

Bilbo squinted at the pale morning sun streaming through the windows, and shifted his feet against the rug; his soles were itching, his toes twitching. He was awash in gooseflesh, though there wasn’t a hint of a draft.

Padding back down the corridor, he found Bolg still in his bed, though sitting up on the edge of the mattress now. His hair was a wild tangle, and his fingers were loosely laced, elbows propped upon his knees.

Pausing in the doorway, tapping his hand against the frame, Bilbo swallowed thickly. “Would you like to?”

Bolg nodded, hands twisting together like pale roots. “I think I would.”

 

* * *

 

“Only because we’re late,” Bilbo had said, perhaps a bit grumpily, before allowing Bolg to sling him up on his back. If they meant to catch the dwarves, they needed to make all due haste, and though Bilbo still considered himself a hobbit in his prime, Bolg’s long legs could outpace him in only a handful of strides.

Clinging tightly to his son’s neck with both their rucksacks hanging heavy from his own shoulders, Bilbo spat out the frizzy tufts of hair that kept finding their way into his mouth, blown back by the whipping wind. Bolg sprinted down dusty lanes, leaping over fences without pause, and even managed to call out answers to their neighbours’ curious questions without losing momentum.

“We’re going on an adventure!” Bolg shouted to Rolo Brownlock, vaulting off the path and into a field, and Bilbo tightened his calves hard around the lad’s ribs. He had the contract clutched in a fierce grip, tucked under Bolg’s chin.

They reached the edge of the woods more swiftly than Bilbo had imagined possible, Hobbiton reduced to a green blur around them; it was there, as rolling fields and low fences gave way to moss and trees, that Bolg paused, sniffing the air. He inhaled deeply once, then tilted his head and inhaled again, before swinging them sharply toward the recently risen sun.

“This way,” he said brightly, throwing Bilbo a toothy grin over one shoulder, and proceeded to tear off towards the Great East Road.

 

* * *

 

If dwarves were as lethal as dragons, able to spew searing flames, Bilbo had little doubt that he and Bolg would already be on fire. Thorin was glaring at the pair of them, lingering especially on Bolg, with such clear ill-will that it nearly took Bilbo’s breath away. It did, however, most definitely light a fire in his belly, boiling with indignation at such undeserved hostility directed at his son.

They were not turned away, no matter the revulsion in Thorin’s stare; Balin accepted the contract after a quick glance at their neat signatures, and Bilbo found himself lifted up upon a pony before he could even get his feet under him, still reeling a bit from his harrowing journey with Bolg.

Somehow, by good fortune or some wizardry, the dwarves had a hulking great horse waiting as well, larger than any Bilbo had ever seen. It was a truly massive creature, with a smooth dappled grey coat, a pale mane and tail, and even tufts of white hair growing around its wide hooves; the mare was beautiful, and best of all she took to Bolg almost immediately, butting her head against his shoulder with a friendly sounding whinny.

“There’s a good girl,” Bolg murmured, stroking the horse’s neck, while Bilbo tentatively took up his own pony’s reins (the little chestnut mare seemed perfectly content to trot along without his input, however, which was actually very good news).

“Keep up,” Thorin snapped back at them, turning his own mount with a sharp click of his tongue.

Unsurprisingly, the _dwarves_ did not immediately warm to Bolg, by and large ignoring his presence entirely as he trotted along beside Gandalf and his father. The lad had never been on a horse before, but the dappled mare (Bolg had started calling her Tulip, after Gandalf claimed to have forgotten if she had ever been called anything else, while Bilbo was informed that his own furry mare was already dubbed Myrtle), was perfectly calm. With each mile they travelled, Bolg gained a sureness on his horse that Bilbo hadn’t quite grasped himself.

Before leaving the gentle hills of the Shire behind in favour of rougher terrain and the grey slopes of the Misty Mountains rising in the distance, the dwarves gradually began to draw Bilbo into sociable chats, but still said only a scant handful of words to Bolg directly. They weren’t strictly _impolite_ — there weren’t any jibes or insults thrown around— but they were reserved to the point of unsocial when it came to the lad.

Bolg claimed not to mind, when Bilbo pulled him aside; apparently Gandalf was chatty enough company, offering pleasant conversation and a few tales as they rode. Bilbo was far from content with that answer, but the pleading in Bolg’s expression persuaded him to drop the subject, for the moment.

 

* * *

 

It was still early in their journey when Bilbo first heard the bone-rattling shrieks cutting through the black of night, as they camped against a sheltered jut of rock. The sound chilled his blood, and he ducked around the ponies, dashing back into the warm light.

Lying in his bedroll away from the smoke, Bolg jerked awake almost instantly, though he stayed crouched low against the stone.

Fili and Kili, lounging by the fire, perked up at the horrible sound, and Bilbo looked to them for some explanation. “What was that?”

“Orcs,” Kili said grimly, and Bolg flattened further, as though he were trying to melt into the very rock.

“What— _orcs_?” Even as he sputtered the question, Bilbo was moving to his son’s side, slipping down to sit within arm’s reach. That close, he could just hear a faint, reedy whine eking out all but noiselessly from Bolg’s throat.

“Throat cutters,” Fili added, scratching his beard with the stem of his pipe. “There'd be dozens of them out there, in the dark. The lowlands are crawling with them.”

Kili nodded at his brother, then turned to level Bilbo with an ominous look, almost too dramatic to believe. Another distant shriek gave the vivid warnings a great deal of credence, however.

“They strike in the wee small hours,” Kili said, and Bilbo reached back blindly until he found Bolg’s hand with his own and held it. “When everyone's asleep. Quick and quiet, no screams. Just lots of blood.”

“You think that's funny?” Thorin’s voice came so suddenly from the shadows, so unexpectedly, that Bilbo nearly jumped out of his skin. Their taciturn leader stepped into the firelight, favouring his nephews with a scathing look, and the lads ducked their heads. “You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?”

“We didn’t mean anything by it,” Kili said quietly, as Bilbo stroked his thumb over the knobs of Bolg’s knuckles, which were still tensed.

“No, you didn’t.” Bilbo recognized the tone of paternal scolding, and the decimated fall of the younger dwarves' faces. “You know nothing of the world.” Thorin tromped off to peer out into the night, leaving a different sort of unease in his wake, in addition to a lingering fear of what dangers lurked in the wilds.

“Don’t mind him, laddie.” Balin settled against the stone wall with a quiet sigh, favouring Bilbo with a long, considering look before shifting his gaze back, towards Bolg’s shadowed shape. When Balin continued, his voice was soft, though that hardly helped ease the sting of his next words. “Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs.”

And then Balin recounted the tale of a great battle before the gate of Moria, the tragedy and unimaginable horrors, and he spoke of a great pale orc, brutal and vicious, cutting through mighty dwarven warriors, through Thorin’s own kin.

Bilbo could sense Bolg moving behind him, as Balin’s story unfolded, but he did not draw further attention to his son by looking back. Already, the eyes of nearly every dwarf in the company were shifting towards Bolg, the subtleties of their expressions obscured in the dim light, but Bilbo could guess the mood was not especially favourable.

Bilbo did not flinch when one thick arm wound around his middle, allowing himself to be pulled back nearer Bolg’s chest. The lad was still bundled in his coat to ward off the evening's chill, and Bilbo slipped his fingers under the sleeve cuff, burrowing until he found a pulse beneath the layer of heavy blue corduroy. He leaned into the half-embrace, resting his temple against Bolg’s cheek when the lad hooked his chin over Bilbo’s shoulder.

Balin simply continued his story, until finally gazing out at Thorin’s stiff back. “There is one I could call king,” he said, warm with admiration, and Bilbo could not help but be struck by the powerful image of a younger Thorin, bruised and nearly broken, but still victorious over such horrific odds.

He could also better understand the reason for Thorin’s dark dislike now, though he still did not agree with it.

“And what about Azog,” Bilbo dared to ask, before he could bite the likely ill-advised question back. “What happened to him?”

He certainly held no concern for the orc who had caused so much death— he was not stupid enough to consider himself an _orc-lover_ , as he had been called pejoratively on occasion. Orcs were largely a cruel and wicked people; Bolg was an exception, not a rule, and Bilbo rarely allowed himself to consider what sort of ferocious monster his dear son may have been twisted into, had he stayed and suffered amongst them.

Bilbo pitied orcs, for the heinous torments they suffered and the beasts they became, but he did not love them. He loved his son.

“He slunk back into the hole whence he came.” Though the question had been directed at Balin, it was Thorin who answered, coming close again to look intently at Bolg, lit from beneath by the flickering orange glow of flames. “That _filth_ ,” he continued, his hard gaze never breaking. “Died of his wounds long ago.”

Bolg growled quietly, a noise Bilbo recognized as regret; several hands strayed towards weapons at the sound, though thankfully none were drawn.

“Azog was the word, the name you asked me,” Bolg said, and Bilbo did not need to crane his neck to know that his son was matching Thorin’s stare, though likely without a reflection of bitter anger. Instead, Bilbo had little doubt that the lad looked unbearably sad. “The one I did not know. A giant, pale orc.”

Without even a nod of acknowledgment, Thorin turned away, addressing the rest of the company. “Anyone not on watch, get to sleep. Dawn comes early.”

Those who had stirred from their rest to listen to Balin’s tale dispersed without argument, slipping back to their bedrolls, while Thorin moved to resume his perch. Bilbo watched the flickering flames, wondering how in the world he would manage to nod off with such thoughts swimming around his head.

“Master Balin?” Just as the dwarves rarely spoke to Bolg, the lad rarely addressed them without prompting. His hesitant question now was unexpected; Balin certainly looked surprised, his bushy brows rising towards his hairline, but Bolg pushed on, undeterred. “When was the battle at Moria? How long ago?”

“Over a century,” Balin replied, not quite leery, and the thread of Bolg's wonderings set Bilbo’s mind spinning with possibilities, some quite terrible. “Why do you ask?”

“I was only a babe when I came to Bag End.” Bolg grumbled with displeasure again, likely considering similar unfortunate assumptions. “Just twenty years past.”

Wreathed in bluish smoke, Gandalf frowned silently across the fire, sharing a significant glance with a Balin, then another (rather mysterious) look with Bilbo. Fili and Kili, as well as the others still listening were gaping with varying degrees of shock, though most expressions were limned with some lingering distrust.

No more was said on the matter that night, and Bilbo scooted his bedroll further from the fire, pressing close against the warmth of his son instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There hasn't been a great deal of interaction with the rest of the Company yet, but I do plan for that to change. The dwarves are currently in a weird place when it comes to Bolg, and by extension, Bilbo: tradition dictates they not be dicks about it, but Bolg's an orc. Worse still, he's an orc that reminds them of Azog, so it's especially difficult for those who fought at Azanulbizar. They don't trust him, they don't like him, and so they're a bit cooler to Bilbo than they would be at this point in regular canon.


	4. Chapter 4

“This place smells foul,” Bolg said when they started making camp beside the ruined farmhouse, his face scrunching up in distaste. “Like death— blood and dung, but too fresh for ruins. And there's... something else. I don't know what for certain, but it reeks.”

Giving Myrtle a scratch on the neck, Bilbo leaned close, speaking quietly out of the side of his mouth as the Company milled around them. “You’re certain it’s not just dwarf feet you're smelling, all cramped and sweating in those boots?”

With his gaze straying towards the woods, Bolg continued his periodic sniffing, and shook his head. “This is worse than feet.”

“I'm not actually sure that's possible, my boy.”

But then between Gandalf flouncing off in a strop, and all the other little nuisances of making rough camp, Bilbo forgot his son's complaining almost entirely. Fili and Kili were in charge of the ponies, as per their uncle's order, but Tulip could be difficult to manage purely by virtue of her size; the young dwarves left that challenge for last, eyeballing the leggy mare with poorly hidden frustration.

“I can lead her,” Bolg offered from the mossy patch he'd claimed as a seat, keeping close by Tulip while the other mounts had been trotted off two-by-two. Bilbo wasn't eavesdropping, necessarily, but he did plan to keep half an ear on Bolg for a while yet; it had been quite some time since they'd been surrounded by people who didn't know Bolg, and whose ignorance of his bright, kindly nature could lead to unpleasant situations.

Bilbo glanced over from his task— he had volunteered to help Bombur prepare supper, and had been accepted with startling enthusiasm (but of course the dwarves recalled the contents of his pantry with great fondness)— in time to see Fili snatching the dangling reins.

“No need,” Fili said crisply, then jerked his head at his brother. “Come on, before the rest of them start wandering.” Kili simply stayed quiet, falling in beside Tulip with nary a glance at Bolg.

It was intensely frustrating to see similar scenes play out, over and over again, as their journey continued. It was some of the worst memories of Bolg's childhood— the whispering, the dark looks, the avoidance— brought to life again. Was the chance of sating some absurd wanderlust really worth all this?

Shifting his attention back to chopping carrots, Bilbo resolved to keep his tongue a bit longer; Bolg wanted this, perhaps more than Bilbo. He was a young lad, eager for adventure, and certainly thicker-skinned than his overprotective father— the dwarves would see his worth, irrespective of his race, given time.

Yes, after all that, Bilbo thought he might be forgiven for allowing a quirk of Bolg's sensitive nose to slip his mind.

At this moment, however, dangling upside-down from the fist of a mountain troll and utterly doused in the most loathsome mucus imaginable, Bilbo was starkly reminded of that earlier conversation. And he had most _definitely_ discovered the source of the mysterious stench.

“Make him _squeal_ ,” one of the trolls sneered, breath wafting pungent as a privy; the stew pot didn’t smell much better, to be honest, though the quality of the stew was less of a pressing concern than whether or not Bilbo would end up diced and tossed in it.

Before he could inform his smelly captors that he’d be perfectly willing to squeal like a stuck pig without any encouragement whatever, there was a ferocious roar echoing through the trees, booming like thunder.

“What was— ” One of the trolls began to say, only to break off with a wordless holler as Kili appeared from the brush, hacking away at thick, stumpy legs.

Being tossed like a sack of potatoes at a fully armed dwarf was not Bilbo’s idea of a fine evening, but it was better than being stew; it was better, even, than a moment longer spent upside-down, with his stomach churning and his head ready to pop from his shoulders. Kili managed to catch him without any accidental skewering, as well, but then there were dwarves rushing from the woods, and Bolg charging in beside them, wielding what looked like a rather substantial piece of broken tree like a club.

Heart in his mouth, Bilbo scrambled out of the way of hacking blades and huge, stomping feet— he had seen his son chase ravenous wolves from the edges of farmland, armed with a long handled spade, going so far as to crack one of the beasts across the muzzle. He had heard the stories, after the fact, of Bolg confronting bandits that dared menace other Shirefolk, and sending the blighters running for the hills.

Bolg was incredibly strong, with a natural aptitude and _hunger_ for fighting that he and Bilbo had discussed at length, but he had never had any proper weapons training. The sight of him now, teeth bared and snarling, smashing trolls with a log bigger than Bilbo, was terrifying, but in a very specific way. Bilbo was not shocked by the monstrous twisting of Bolg’s features, or the vicious instinct that seemed to rule his movements as he threw himself heedlessly into the battle— Bilbo was terrified for his son’s safety, flinching at every punch and smash the trolls managed to land on the substantial target Bolg had made of himself.

But Bolg was not alone, and the dwarves appeared to be fierce warriors in their own right; that was some small comfort, even as Bilbo dodged and weaved around the edges of the fray, wishing desperately that Gandalf had not left them to their own devices. The dwarves had skill and strength to varying degrees, and Bolg was driving forward on instinct, but the trolls were huge and seemed impossibly tough to bring down, shaking off even the hardest hits.

Bilbo knew enough to stay out of the fray, more likely to be a hindrance than any help at all— the urge to leap upon the troll Bolg was currently grappling with was a strong impulse, but it was also complete madness. Instead, Bilbo did what little he could, scampering over to try and free their poor panicked ponies.

Then, of course, he was caught for his troubles, bugger it all.

“Bilbo!” Kili was apparently the first to spot his predicament, but Bilbo had eyes only for Bolg, whose nose was bleeding sluggishly, and whose teeth gleamed savagely through smears of black as he hissed at his father’s captors.

“Bolg, _no_ —” Shaking his head desperately, Bilbo hoped beyond all reason that he wasn’t about to be torn limb from limb while his son watched. Kili tried to rush forward, but Thorin held him back, and blessedly, Bolg actually kept his place as well, though he was very nearly vibrating with leashed fury.

“Lay down your arms,” one of the trolls demanded. “Or we'll rip his off!”

The dwarves were huddled together, bristling with weapons, and Bilbo thought for panic-stricken instant that they would refuse— would they truly yield to save the life of one hobbit, and an orc-lover besides?

But then Thorin met his eyes, implacable ferocity giving way to bitter resignation, and Bilbo could have wept with relief as the dwarf plunged his sword into the dirt, scowling.

* * *

 

“Make sure the big one’s trussed up good and tight.” Bilbo bit his lip, watching one of trolls give Bolg’s limp body a kick. Before Bilbo and the dwarves had been bundled into bags, the bigger troll with the milky blind eye (the one called Bert, if he recalled correctly) had made a point of picking up Bolg’s improvised club, chuckling meanly, and thumping the lad across the face hard enough to put him down in a pile.

While the rest of them languished in filthy canvas sacks, Bolg’s arms and legs had been tied tight with thick rope and leather strapping; he’d stirred once during the rough handling, but had only managed a weak groan before suffering another punishing blow to the head, this one from a meaty fist.

It was difficult to tell in the dim light, but he at least still appeared to be breathing, and Bilbo’s mind was racing for some plan, some _idea_ of how to get them out of this alive.

“What is it, even?” The troll, the one who had sneezed on him, kicked Bolg again, turning the lad to lie on his back in the dirt and planting one huge foot perilously against the centre of Bolg's chest. “Smells a bit like orc, yeah, but _look_ at it. Lots of meat on it, at least.”

“Orc tastes awful,” said the one turning the spit. “And why are we even wasting time cooking this lot? Dawn ain’t far away, and I don’t fancy being turned to stone.” And _there_ was another pressing issue: currently a few members of their company were _already being cooked_. Time was most definitely not on their side—

 _Time_.

Bilbo stopped trying to wriggle his shoulders free, and thought a moment. Dawn, _sunlight,_ turned trolls to stone; that was apparently no mere fabrication confined to tales. If he could buy some time, if he could distract them somehow...

“Wait!” Struggling up onto his feet, Bilbo hopped out of the pile of dwarves and managed not to topple face-first into the coals. For a trio of stinking cretins, these trolls seemed to hold some grotesque appreciation for the culinary arts, even if their results were nightmarish by hobbit standards; with any luck at all, that was something Bilbo could use.

If he was careful, if he was clever, it might just work.

It _had_ to work.

* * *

 

“Stop fussing, would you—” Leaning back, Bolg easily moved his head out of Bilbo’s reach, even though the lad was sitting on a mossy rock while Bilbo stood between his knees. There were great blotches of charcoal-coloured bruises beginning to darken around his nose and creep up to ring one eye, but both Gandalf and a gruffly unenthusiastic Oin had assured them that Bolg hadn’t suffered worse than a broken nose and a mild bit of addling.

Shaking out the rag he’d soaked in cool water, more than content to wipe the blood from his son’s face rather than investigate what (likely quite smelly) treasures the trolls had been hoarding, Bilbo let out a long, annoyed exhale. “I’m your father and I’ll fuss if I like.”

“Yes, and I love you dearly, Papa.” Bolg battered face was split in a crooked smile, even as he swatted Bilbo’s hands away from reaching for him again. “But my arms aren’t broken, and you stink like troll bogeys.”

“Fine, fine— do what you want.” Bilbo lobbed the rag, only to have Bolg catch it before it could land wetly in the lad’s lap. “I only saved you from the soup pot, after all.”

Scrubbing his face with the cloth, wiping the worst of the flaking black blood away, Bolg chuffed a low rasping laugh. “I thought Gandalf saved us, cracking that boulder.”

“ _You_ were out cold,” Bilbo countered, just as Gandalf reappeared at the mouth of the dingy little cavern.

“Bilbo,” the wizard said, and held out a short, leather-sheathed blade. “Here. This looks about your size. And for young Bolg, a fine axe; may it serve you as well, if not better, than the stoutest tree branch ever could.”

The small sword was pushed into Bilbo’s hands before he could refuse, but he attempted to, regardless. “Gandalf, we can’t take these.”

“I can.” Standing from his seat, Bolg hefted the thick, intricately rune-carved axe, testing its weight and peering curiously at the angular designs etched along its neck. Bilbo rolled his eyes skyward, grasping for patience.

“The axe is dwarven,” Gandalf continued, paying no heed to the exasperation he was causing. “For Bolg, I fear, would not benefit from an elf-forged weapon. But the blade is of elven make, and should glow blue when orcs or goblins are nearby.”

“Really?” Against his better judgement, Bilbo allowed his curiosity flare, and drew the admittedly beautiful sword from its scabbard. It shimmered oddly in the sun, more than the simple gleam of polished steel, and did indeed emit a faint blue glow.

“Fascinating,” Gandalf murmured, even as Bolg reared back slightly, pulling a queer face.

“Gives me gooseflesh,” he said, frowning, and Gandalf stretched his hand towards the blade, stopping well short of touching it directly.

“The glow is meant to be brighter than that.” Gandalf traced his palm through the air, following along the gently curving shape of the blade down to where Bilbo clutched the grip. “Hm. It will be interesting to see if the reaction is greater in other circumstances.”

 _When other orcs are nearby_ was an unspoken addendum that Bilbo wished very much he hadn’t heard tacked on the end of that sentence.

“I have never used a sword in my life,” he tried to argue, feeling gawky and strange even holding the blade, but wizards were notoriously difficult to refuse, and Gandalf was no exception to that.

“I hope you never have to,” he said, his tone taking on significant weight as he looked between Bilbo and Bolg. “But if you do, either of you, remember this: true courage is about knowing not when to take a life, but when to spare one.”

Bilbo would think long upon those words later, but there was no chance to dwell on them now; Thorin called out a warning, and suddenly a madman— a mad _wizard_ — was bursting through the trees, hollering his head off.

 

* * *

 

Radagast the Brown was... eccentric, to put it mildly, but not terribly observant. He had somehow managed to overlook a live insect in his mouth, so truly, it was hardly surprising that Bolg did not immediately come to his attention, despite towering peacefully less than an arm's length away, quiet and attentive.

“Now how ever did you get there, you little— oh my gracious!” Scrambling away, thrashing his gnarled staff out before him, Radagast likely would have ended up sprawled across the forest floor if not for Gandalf’s quick reflexes, reaching out to catch the other wizard around the shoulders.

“Be calm, my friend. It’s all right.” With his free hand, Gandalf carefully pushed Radagast’s staff back down from its defensive posture, and flashing Bilbo a calming glance as well. “There's no need for alarm.”

“Is that—” Craning his neck back, eyes peeled wide and unblinking, Radagast made an odd, birdlike warble. His fingers, peeking out from his raggedy gloves, were still tightened to whiteness where they gripped his staff. The stick insect was clinging to his sleeve, damp with spit and slowly climbing upward. “Gandalf? Gandalf, is that... is that an orc... in a waistcoat?”

“That is Mister Bolg Baggins.” Gandalf smiled, warm as toast. “Of Hobbiton, in the Shire.”

“Mister Radagast, sir.” Without any abrupt movements, Bolg lowered his shaggy head in a respectful bow. Both he and Bilbo were all too familiar with the care required when introduced to strangers— there was no hiding Bolg’s shape or his race, and reactions were sometimes fiery. Still, whether faced with meeting an old Gaffer, a merchant, a dwarven prince, or a wizard, Bolg most often fell back upon politeness, with a healthy dash of caution. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance. Gandalf speaks most highly of you.”

“I— oh.” Now the wizard did blink, slow and owlish, and let out another faint warble. “Oh my. I've never... Goodness me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think I'd finish this chapter today, but yay, bonus!


	5. Chapter 5

While the wizards trotted off to confer about wizardy matters in relative private, Bilbo buckled the sword around his waist (under protest), and Bolg went trudging back towards camp, following Ori and Bifur as they searched for signs of the spooked ponies. Tulip hadn’t been among the captured mounts— she and a few others had managed to weather the night largely unscathed, having been left grazing peacefully during the dust up with the trolls— but Bolg still insisted his sense of smell might be useful tracking the runaways, whether or not the dwarves would actually acknowledge the help.

Bilbo let him go reluctantly, suffering a silly twinge of worry; the lad was old enough, and certainly large enough to take care of himself in the woods, but the urge to keep Bolg in his sight for at least a little while after such a harrowing escape didn’t seem completely unreasonable. The lad was determined, however, and Bilbo had made a promise to himself long ago that he would never let his son be hobbled by the fears of the world, even his own. Bolg wanted to do some good, without any expectations of gratitude, and Bilbo wasn’t about to put a stop to that.

It had been a bit touch-and-go with Bifur early in their journey— communication was challenging, of course, but the issues ran deeper than that. Bombur had hustled Bilbo aside before they had even passed out of the Shire, and recounted the truncated tale of an ill-fated skirmish and a gruesome injury.

“Addled him, as you’d expect,” Bombur had said softly, leaning as close to Bilbo as he dared without losing balance and tumbling from his sturdy pony. Bolg had been riding some distance ahead at the time, pointing out landmarks to Gandalf. “Buggering old axe stuck in his skull, and all. Just... he’s harmless, mostly; a bit unsteady, by times, but usually mild as milk. But your, er, your _son_... Don’t know for sure what seeing an orc everyday’ll do. Me and my brother, we’ll keep an eye on things much as we’re able, but I thought, _we_ thought, it’d be proper for you to know.”

There had been a tense moment or two since then, some agitated muttering and wild looks from Bifur (especially in the queer half-light of the gloaming, when evening began to set in), but there hadn’t been any rattling of that wicked boar spear. Now, idling in the woods with troll bogeys drying stiff and disgusting on his coat, Bilbo couldn’t help but fret as Bolg loped off through the trees after the others, keeping a careful distance between himself and the dwarves. If catching sight of an orc hiking through the trees— an orc with an axe strapped across his back, for goodness sake— was the thing that pushed Bifur from the teetering edge, Bilbo would never forgive himself. Nor, likely, would he ever forgive Gandalf if Bolg was hurt because of that blighted axe.

“Looking a wee peaky there, Bilbo.” Bofur, leaning easily on his mattock, continued scraping dirt from beneath his fingernails. “Not quite got your legs under you yet? I know I'm still feeling right crisped, like a rasher of bacon.”

“I— no, I’m fine.” Forcing his eyes away from darting immediately back to the woods, Bilbo turned to allow Bofur’s chatting to distract him instead. “Just, well, not the most restful night we’ve had so far, was it?”

Blowing away a bit of dry earth from his hand, Bofur’s grin dimpled his cheeks deeply behind the bracket of his moustache. “At least it wasn’t raining.”

Though he was itchy, exhausted, unspeakably filthy, and really quite sore, Bilbo was still startled into a bout of real, almost breathless laughter. Clapping his hand over his mouth, ignoring the vaguely disgruntled looks being shot in his direction by Thorin and Dwalin, Bilbo was quite pleased when Bofur’s warm chuckle joined his own.

“Speaking of bacon,” Kili said from behind them, leaning subtly closer and keeping his voice low. “Do you think we've time for breakfast? I mean, it's not as though the trolls are going anywhere, and the wizards might be _ages_ yet.”

Bilbo's stomach certainly agreed with the notion, gnawing insistently, but his good sense won the day.

“ _You_ try to convince him—” he began to say, entirely unwilling to throw himself on that particular sword by bringing the idea to Thorin, even if his silence meant suffering through the morning empty-bellied. But then the first howl rent the air, and his heart leapt into his mouth. “What— Is that a wolf? Are there wolves out there?”

Bolg had fought wolves before, viciously _hungry_ wolves, but that was little comfort.

“Wolves?” Bofur had snapped out of his slouch instantly, and now he hefted his mattock with obvious jitters, stepping between Bilbo and the distant, fading echo. “No, that is not a wolf.”

The beasts came from nowhere and everywhere at once— the first from behind, leaping upon Dori with cruel jaws snapping, followed swiftly by another from the other way— and Bilbo did not have the time to even consider drawing his sword before the fight was over. Nori pulled his brother from beneath the massive body, while Thorin yanked his gleaming new blade from the creature's neck.

“Warg scouts—” It was utter madness, but Bilbo found his fingers wrapping tight around the hilt of his sword at Thorin's words; this beast, _this_ horrid beast was the monster that haunted his son's sleep. “Which means an orc pack is not far behind.”

“Orc pack?” The incredulous question escaped before Bilbo could think better of it; as though trolls and wargs were not bad enough, now _orcs_ were descending upon them.

Bilbo had known this journey would be dangerous, and if Bolg had been a hobbit tween, there would have been no discussion, no _chance_ of them signing on to join the Company. The lad was certainly more capable of holding his own in a fight than Bilbo, but this...

While Gandalf barked questions at Thorin, Bilbo was more concerned with scanning the trees, listening and looking for Bolg to appear. Surely their little search party would have heard the ruckus; _surely_ they would be appearing any moment now—

Ori was the first to stumble out from the greenery, with Bifur following close behind, but it was the sight of Bolg between them that convinced the knot in Bilbo's chest to unclench enough to even breathe.

Wide, pale eyes were gleaming wildly, his posture hunched and hunted, but the lad appeared unharmed. He kept to the higher ground as Ori informed them all of their ponies' ill-timed flight, gaze darting quickly around, and Bilbo could see his hands squeezed into fists at his sides.

The plan was a simple one, dependent upon a great deal of luck, but it was all they had. Radagast tore off through the trees, mounting his sled and urging his rabbits to running, while the rest of them followed Gandalf, snatching up what few supplies they dared to carry; the howling of the approaching pack grew closer with every moment, spurring them on quicker than even Thorin's most emphatic order or hardest glare ever could.

“Give me more,” Bolg said as they scrambled for their packs and weapons, pulling the mouth of his larger backpack wide. His voice was hardly more than a low growl, a testament to his fear. “I can carry more— it won't slow me. Ori, Mister Balin—”

Before anyone could argue, Bolg had snatched up one of Ori's bags and slung it over his shoulder, and stuffed Balin's pack and Oin's medicine bag inside his own. Looping his arms through the straps of the bulging sack, Bolg stood tall, and settled his heavier load with a yank and a grunt.

“It's good; it's fine,” he said, waving off Balin and Oin's objections, while Ori gawped and Bilbo fought the urge to give the lot of them a meaningful jab with his walking stick. They had no time for dithering, and thankfully enough, Thorin seemed to agree, rounding on them with a thunderous stare.

“We have to move, _now_.”

Beyond the forest, the terrain opened into rocky lowland plains, broken up by juts of stone and some scarce, scrubby brush. It was easier to traverse than the uneven ground of the Trollshaws, where thick roots twisted out every-which-way to snatch unwary ankles, but the field offered little in the way of proper hiding spots. The Company would be free to cover ground quickly, but so would their pursuers, and Bilbo truly didn't fancy their chances of outrunning wargs in a footrace.

His instincts screamed at him to hide, to slip into a crevice or beneath a fallen log and stay so very quiet until the danger passed, but that was hardly sensible or possible. Instead, Bilbo found himself legging it from one meagre shelter to another, wincing at every bark or shout that seemed too close, as Radagast led the orcs on a madcap chase of his own.

The extra weight wasn't slowing Bolg at all— the lad was holding back his long, loping strides to keep pace with the rest of them— but his breathing was still sharp and stuttering, his nostrils huffing with muted snorts that sounded like a furious bull. The wargs were roaring and howling as they dashed after Radagast's sled, the savage noises rattling down into Bilbo's bones, and he could scarcely imagine the sorts of memories Bolg was wrestling.

Pressed close against an outcropping of jagged rock as Gandalf peered around, Bilbo took firm hold of Bolg's wrist, squeezing until his son turned terrified eyes in his direction. The lad was bold enough to face down mountain trolls with nothing but a tree branch, but this was different.

“I'm right here, my boy.” Assurances that everything would be all right caught in his throat, unspoken; if things did go sour, Bilbo couldn't bear the thought of wasting his last words to his son on lies. “I'm right here with you.”

Bolg bared his teeth in a taut expression miles removed from a smile. “Yes, Papa.”

Then they were off, tearing over the coarse grass in whatever direction Gandalf led, and Bilbo held tightly to his trust in the wizard, stamping down worry born of the view: nothing but open field and a handful of widely scattered evergreens for miles. Nowhere to hide; no safe haven. When the wargs were led across their path again, the Company ducked sideways, crouching behind a stoney mound; Bolg was stooped nearly in half, one huge hand braced against the ground while the other laid flat over Bilbo's chest, holding him back against the rock, with Bofur wedged behind the long line of his arm as well.

The growling above them turned Bilbo's blood to ice, sounding alarmingly nearby, and his fears were confirmed as he watched Thorin nod to Kili, prompting the younger dwarf to nock an arrow with one of the gravest expressions Bilbo had ever seen gracing his face. Then Kili was darting out of cover, and the thud of arrow meeting flesh was all but drowned out by the snarling that followed— Bolg was pushing Bilbo back even as the warg and its rider tumbled down the rock, still violently alive.

It was a messy, noisy business, and Bilbo was hardly surprised when the orc's final snarl was echoed by more howling, growing rapidly and worryingly closer.

They'd been spotted, their diversion no longer enough, and Bilbo ignored every stitch in his side and sting in his lungs as he dashed along beside the others; their pursuers were snapping at their heels now, nearly literally. It was a desperate sprint to nowhere without any hope of hiding, until far too soon they found themselves surrounded, with wargs creeping over the hills on all sides and Gandalf vanished like so much smoke on the wind.

They formed as much of a defensive ring as they were able, and Bilbo drew his sword with nary a tremble in his hand— now, of all moments, he could not afford to let himself falter. He might be more likely to skewer himself than do any helpful damage, but he couldn't stand idle. He _could not_. Bolg was a familiar blur of white and blue out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't dare take his eyes off the advancing wargs to glance over at his son.

Until, of course, he heard such a ferocious roar, nearly unrecognizable in its rage. Then, foolish or no, Bilbo looked to Bolg, and found the lad standing between Ori and one of the orc riders, axe in hand and lips curled back from his teeth in another wordless, ear-splitting bellow.

Incredibly enough, the warg actually seemed startled by the display— it paused its advance, nearly cringing away even as its fangs gnashed threateningly. The orc faired only slightly better, staring slack-jawed for one frozen moment before returning the roar, a hissing sort of snarl, and hollering some orcish words at the rest of his pack.

“Bolg, get _back_!” Bilbo shouted, as the orcs drew rapidly closer, penning them in and chittering harshly amongst themselves. Their attention had shifted too much to Bolg, and the idiotic, _pigheaded_ boy was not backing down one single step from his aggressive stance.

“Hold your ground,” Thorin countered, bringing his own sword up. “All of you, hold your ground!”

“This way, you fools!”

Bilbo had _never_ been happier to hear that dratted wizard calling him a fool.

It was a passage hidden between the rocks, steep and dark, but unless there was certain and excruciating death waiting at the bottom, it was at least better than the alternative. Bilbo lingered just long enough to watch Bolg break his mad stand-off and start to follow, hauled along by Ori's grip on his coat; regardless, the choice to tarry any further was taken from Bilbo by Thorin shoving him toward the hole, pushing hard enough to send him skittering over the edge, feet first.

The drop wasn't too punishing, though Bilbo managed to scrape his palms and bruise his behind on the way, and then he was scrambling to gain his feet and squinting up at the bright opening as the others continued to slide down into their sanctuary. Thorin was a dark shape against the glare, weapons held ready, while Gandalf counted them off.

When Ori came tumbling down, nearly knocking Dori off his feet, there was no great hulking body sliding after him— there was another roar from above, a scuffle of weapons and wargs, and Thorin shouting for Kili.

“Go!” Thorin shouted. “All of you!” Fili's blonde head caught the last flash of sunlight before he leapt over the edge, followed by his brother and a massive form that could only be Bolg.

Bombur and Dwalin had the presence of mind to make way as Bolg skidded down the incline, coming to rest with a heavy thud and a grunt. His axe was still clutched in one hand, and there was dark wetness slicked over its edge.

Thorin came last, and the dust had barely settled from his landing when the sounds of horns rang out above, and the din of battle and hoofbeats followed. The body of an orc toppled down among them just as the noise was fading, and Thorin pulled the arrow from its neck, his face twisting in distaste from more than the gruesome task.

“Elves,” he said, in nearly the same disgusted tone of voice Bilbo reserved for finding weevils in the flour.

There was only one path, apart from attempting to clamber back up the way they came, and the dwarves headed down the narrow cranny with minimal discussion. Bilbo had a thousand questions, many of them for Gandalf, but he settled for stretching up and grabbing Bolg by one dusty lapel, yanking the lad down to bend at the waist as they fell in line with the dwarves.

When his son's face was reasonably close, Bilbo shook his grip, keeping his voice quiet despite the rolling fire in his gut. “What in the world were you _thinking?_ ”

“It would have killed him, Papa.” Bolg didn't cow, didn't even duck his head, and Bilbo shook him again. “The warg, it would've— I will not let that happen. To any of us.”

“ _Idiot_ boy.” Bilbo regretted the words almost instantly, biting his lip, but there was no swallowing them back. He was also forced to release his grip, as Bolg shimmied through a particularly tight spot in the path; once on the other side, the lad stood straight, facing ahead, and Bilbo knew for certain that he wouldn't let himself be bent down again.

“Bolg, wait.” Slipping through easily, Bilbo reached up and caught his son's hand instead, taking hold of two thick fingers. There wasn't enough room to walk side-by-side, but Bolg allowed his arm to be drawn out behind him, not looking back. “You managed to scare me half to death. What you did was brave, my boy, you know that, but please, just... be careful. Spare your poor father's heart, and be careful.”

Bolg didn't deign to answer, not with words at least, but Bilbo was faintly relieved to feel the press of a thumb against his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update, Bolg meets the elves. You can't see, but I may be rubbing my hands together with a sort of wicked glee.
> 
> And if you haven't seen it yet, pop over to Chapter One and have a look at the gorgeous cover art for this story, done by hobbitdragon. <3
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for your lovely comments so far!


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